


the ache in your legs

by apollothyme



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Footy Ficathon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-17 16:41:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 17,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2316371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apollothyme/pseuds/apollothyme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short fics written here and there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sergio/Iker; a known fact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re meant to breathe it in as in like, actually getting some of the smoke in your lungs. All you’re doing right now is creating a toxic greenhouse inside your mouth.”

“You’re meant to breathe it in as in like, actually getting some of the smoke in your lungs. All you’re doing right now is creating a toxic greenhouse inside your mouth,” said Sergio, and then he giggled, couldn’t stop himself even if he tried, which he didn’t in the first place. The sight of Iker Casillas, president of the student council, captain of the football team, Mister ‘I’m So Perfect’ that has everyone in their school in love with him, with his cheeks flushed and his eyebrows furrowed in frustration trying to smoke a blunt was simply too funny.

That he was trying and somehow failing, as if smoking was something a normal human being could fail at, only added to Sergio’s bad cases of the giggles, which grew as a terrible fungus until it became a full-out laugh, with Sergio wheezing on the floor and Iker shooting daggers at him with his eyes.

“Shut up and just tell me what I’m doing wrong,” said Iker after giving Sergio a light kick.

Sergio rolled his eyes but sat up obediently, scooting closer to Iker. They were on Sergio’s rooftop, with a view of Madrid so gorgeous it would leave any tourist jealous. Sergio was still not quite sure how he’d gone from being caught smoking behind the science building by the president of the student council to smoking a joint on his rooftop with said president, who was normally the striking image of the perfect student, but he was far from complaining.

“You’re meant to breathe this instead of air, alright? But you can breathe in a little air alongside the smoke, too, make sure it goes down. Oh and,” Sergio clamped his index finger and his thumb over Iker’s nose, “don’t breathe from your nose at the same time.”

Iker looked a little panicked, his mouth opening in surprise. Sergio took the opportunity to slip the joint into the space between his lips, held it there for him while watching Iker’s cheeks hollow in. He took it out to allow Iker some space to exhale. The smoke curled in the air beautifully, faint wispy marks of clouded grey that disappeared as soon as they’d appeared. Sergio breathed it in. He’d always liked the smell of smoke, he was that kind of too far gone. His other hand stayed on Iker’s nose.

One of his fingers scraped Iker’s upper lip by accident. Iit was nothing, just a little graze, but somehow it was charged with the energy of a thousand electrical storms, and Sergio wasn’t thinking that just because he was high. Iker’s eyes flew up to meet Sergio’s. They were so close, sitting side by side, with their knees on top of one another and their shoulders glued.

Sergio’s eyes looked down to Iker’s lips, still open in a trusting ‘O’ shape. They were slightly chapped and a dull pink color. Sergio had never wanted to kiss anyone more in his life.

He slipped the joint back into Iker’s lips, let go of his nose and shifted until he was leaning back against the wall. “There, you’ve got it. Just keep doing that and in a couple of minutes you’ll be part of the potheads club,” Sergio chanced Iker a side glance, “Congratulations.”

Iker huffed, but didn’t say anything. They finished the rest of the blunt in silence, and afterwards Sergio offered to make them a couple of sandwiches, but Iker politely refused, saying he needed to do his homework, and left. He didn’t even give Sergio the time to ask if he’d like to do it with him.

So that was certainly something, Sergio thought, and went to his living room to eat his jamon ibérico sandwich while he watched the newest episode of Shameless on his own.

* * *

The next day, Iker pulled him over to a corner after their one shared class and asked him if they could do _that —_he put so much stress on the word that Sergio almost laughed—again sometime soon. His eyes didn’t meet Sergio’s, not even once, instead fleeted from Sergio’s forehead to his feet to the corridor behind them and the lamp above them.

Sergio scratched the back of his neck. He had better things to do than show Iker Fucking Casillas, of all people, the world of soft drugs, with money out of his own pocket to top off the ridiculous shebang. He wanted to tell Iker this, as well flipping him off, but another part of him was secretly glad Iker had chosen to share this with him.

It was a known fact: everyone in their school was in love with Iker Casillas.

Sergio nodded, said, “Same place, same time." His hand trailed Iker's left bicep, which was nicely defined, of course, just like you'd expect it to be. Sergio winked at Iker, because he could, because there was no one else looking, because it fit the image Iker had already created of him, and left.

The next day, Iker showed up right on time, just like Sergio knew he would, carrying two large club sandwiches and two cokes. Sergio smiled. So maybe Mister ‘I’m So Perfect’ wasn’t such bad company after all.


	2. Sami/Mesut;  hear it in the silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first thing Mesut said when he answered Sami’s request for a skype call wasn’t “hello” or “what’s up”, because he and Sami had moved past pleasantries a long time ago.

The first thing Mesut said when he answered Sami’s request for a skype call wasn’t “hello” or “what’s up”, because he and Sami had moved past pleasantries a long time ago. They’d stopped bothering to fill all the silences between them with words that didn’t mean anything after it became just as easy to let the lack of noise build itself around them and shield them from the world.

Sami liked this about them, found it comforting and familiar in a world where everything was constantly changing. Never mind how, because of it, there were moments where he had no clue what was going on inside Mesut’s head.

This was because sometimes Mesut said certain things, things like “I’ll miss you” and “you’re a great player”, and Sami could tell he meant them, could see the emotion in the soft wrinkles around his eyes and the curve of his smile. But there were other times, times when Mesut said “Tonight was great” and “I love it here” in a dead, monotone voice without looking anyone in the eye; and Sami was left floundering and stumbling, aware that there was something to be heard in all the words unsaid and unable to tell what it was or have the guts to ask.

Or maybe Sami was just bad at reading Mesut, spent too much time searching for what he wanted to see instead of what was really there.

In any case, it didn’t matter, because this time Sami could read him perfectly when Mesut said, “I like it here. It’s good.”

Mesut didn’t add “It’s better” because he didn’t have to. Sami could hear this part easily enough. Some things were just as loud unspoken as they would be if voiced.

Mesut still loved Real Madrid, and everyone on the team still liked him too, talked about him every so often with fondness dripping like honey from their voices. But Mesut didn’t take to Madrid the city too well, never really figured out how to speak Spanish either. The crest had always been a weight on his chest that he bore proudly, but once the weight became too heavy, once the club made it clear there wasn’t enough space left for him, well, leaving wasn’t so hard anymore.

Sami knew this, had seen it, heard it, felt wronged by all of it, infuriated that their club would trade off Mesut like that. He’d gotten over it as best as he could, but the World Cup had brought it all bubbling up again, and now he was here, calling Mesut.

“How is the team? Are they—” Sami didn’t know what to ask. Good? Of course they were good, they had Mesut, Per and Lukas, but everyone else, Sami wasn’t so sure about, “—nice?” is what he settled for in the end, even though it didn’t matter at all whether Arsenal were nice or not.

“They’re great. It’s not— It’s not Real, not so big, but everyone’s talented and just as loud. The style of play is different, too, everything is, honestly but you’d like it. And the fans,” Mesut grinned at the screen, grinned at Sami, “you’ll love them. Their passion…” Mesut shook his head. “It’s from another world.”

“That’s good,” Sami said. He didn’t really know what else to add. It was too early. Arsenal’s offer was one in many, and none of them were solid. Sami didn’t even know if Real was interested in selling.

“You’ll tell me, right? If you decide on anything?” Mesut asked, leaning forward to look closer.

Sami noticed how his shirt was an Arsenal training—pyjama?—shirt, a softer red color than their usual color of choice. “Of course,” Sami smiled.

He didn’t add that if he left, Mesut would be one of the main reasons why. He hoped Mesut would hear it in the silence.


	3. Toni/James; son las cosas pequeñas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first words he learns in spanish are _hola, buenos días_ and _gracias_. They’re not enough to hold up a conversation, hell, they’re not enough to hold up a leaf in the wind, but he’s too busy with press events, photo shoots, individual training sessions, group training sessions, buying a house and a thousand other things that require his exclusive focus to bother with learning more.

The first words he learns in spanish are _hola_ , _buenos días_ and _gracias_. They’re not enough to hold up a conversation, hell, they’re not enough to hold up a leaf in the wind, but he’s too busy with press events, photo shoots, individual training sessions, group training sessions, buying a house and a thousand other things that require his exclusive focus to bother with learning more.

It’s not a problem at first. Toni’s got a translator following him around and she does a good job of explaining things to him. Her name is Julia and her parents are German, moved to Spain when she was a newborn searching for a new life and never went back. She shows Toni around the city, forces him to travel through small, winding roads and see the neverending plazas. 

“You’ll spend most of your time here,” she tells him. “Madrid is very big, but in these streets you will feel like you belong.”

Toni nods and tries to listen, pretends that he understands what she’s talking about and hasn’t spent the past three minutes eyeing the menu of the tapas restaurant next door. They have the weird _queso_ frito with raspberry sauce that probably cuts five years of his lifetime every time he eats one, but tastes so damn delicious.

Julia’s nice and she works with him for two weeks. After that it’s strapple on Kroos, because this is going to be a bumpy ride.

His teammates help or, to be more precise, his teammates think of themselves as helpful when they speak to him extra slowly, as if the problem is Toni’s comprehension skills and not how Toni doesn’t speak a lick of spanish. Toni appreciates their friendly gestures, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s been drinking espressos ever since he moved into the city because he still hasn’t figured out how to ask for anything bigger.

Sami’s the only one who’s genuinely helpful, but he’s got his own things to worry about and he’s already helped Toni find a house and settle in. Not to mention that Sami can’t always be there, although sometimes Toni wonders what it was like when Mesut was there. He figures things were different back then, but he doesn’t think the company helped either figure out the beast that is the spanish language knowing Mesut’s habit of getting distracted by anything on television and Sami’s habit of getting distracted by anything Mesut.

Toni’s not like that. He truly wants to learn spanish so he can talk to his teammates. The problem, to put it into simple words, is that he’s really shitty at spanish. He’s ‘can’t even pronounce _leche_ ’ levels of shitty. He’s on the ‘skipping spanish lessons because he has other, more urgent things to do and then being too tired to pay attention when he does show up’ level of shitty.

He’s, to put it even more simply, screwed.

But out of all the suffocating and overwhelming things that come with moving to a country where the sun is shimmering hot all year round and everybody eats their meals at least two hours too late, there is one good thing, and that one good thing is new teammates who seem to be as overwhelmed as Toni.

James’ issue isn’t the spanish. Toni knows this because James is Colombian, thus a native spanish speaker, and also because he’s been watching James a little. Alright. He’s been watching James a lot. Not in a creepy way, but in a ‘you won the golden boot at this World Cup, you’re kind of amazing and you always smile at me even though the most I’ve ever said to you was a fumbled _hola_ and I’d do just about anything right now to be able to speak more than three words to you’ way, because the latter was totally understandable and reasonable.

So Toni stares and James smiles and together they’re always on the edge of the group, trying to fit in, but unable to. Toni because it took him seven years to learn English in school, so anyone who expects him to learn a new language in less than a month is a fool. James because… Well, to be honest, Toni’s not sure why James hasn’t already become fast friends with everyone on the team. 

The thought that he can’t even do anything about that, because, again, he doesn’t speak the freaking language and can’t ask James what’s wrong, makes him groan and throw a pillow at the nearest wall while he’s home alone.

In the end, it’s his mom who changes his mind.

Toni calls home every day. He misses the sound of German voices and their aching familiarity, misses his family and the cold streets of Munich and knowing what he’s doing with his life. He misses understanding and being understood.

His mom doesn’t hesitate when she pulls out the band aid, quickly and without mercy. She gives him a raw reality check, says, “Things aren’t going to get better if all you do is sit around and wait. I haven’t raised you to act like this. If you want something, you have to get your cute ass up from that couch and get it. You’re a fighter, Toni, so go fight.”

And that is how Toni Kroos finds himself asking James Rodríguez to stretch with him at practice. It’s not easy. He mispronounces at least three words even though he checked and double checked how to say them on Google Translator and at one point he considers just shutting up mid-sentence and leaving. It’s worth it though, it definitely is, for the way James smiles at him afterwards.

Toni doesn’t hesitate to ask James to stretch with him at the next practice, nor at any other practice from then on.

James smiles a lot. When he’s happy or embarrassed or confused, he smiles. He starts including Toni more and more in the direction of his happy smiles with each passing day. More often than not, Toni smiles back. It’s the most he’s done so ever since he moved to Madrid.

They might not speak the same language, but between them they’ve got enough hand signs, universal words and smiles to carry them through any stumbled conversation they try to have. The weirdest part is that none of it is awkward. It’s maybe a little embarrassing, like when Toni gets a cramp and has to guide James’ hands with his own to the upper part of his calves because James is massaging the wrong place, but it’s not awkward. It never is.

Instead, it's James repeating, “ _Leche_ ,” over and over again, pronouncing each sound meticulously every time and flashing Toni a blinding smile when Toni finally gets it right. It’s James teaching Toni countless new swear words, from _de puta madre_ to _cagaste y saltaste en la caca,_ and clapping him on the back when Toni finally manages to tell Sergio Ramos to _ir a la mierda_.

It’s James calling him, two months into the season, and hesitatingly asking if he wants to go out for coffee with him, and it’s Toni asking him to repeat himself to make sure he’s got it right. It’s Toni drawing what he means on a napkin instead of using the translator app in his phone because drawing is more fun. It’s the two of them deciding to go explore Madrid on their own with nothing but a map, which Toni insisted they bring, and lots of blind hope that they won’t get lost and be found dead on a ditch, mostly from James’ behalf.

It’s good and it’s easy and Toni can’t believe he’s so lucky to have found something so close to home, so far away from Germany.


	4. Benedikt/Mats; to see the world from up above

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love me because love doesn't exist and I've tried everything that does.

They are not meant to fall in love. That’s the thing that always sticks out to Benni. They are not meant to fall in love, but the hands of fate are slippery and uncaring. Words like ‘meant’ and ‘should’ lose meaning in the grand scale of what it means to be in alive and to be able to marvel at the stars with each new passing day and to be able to breathe each other in as if they are oxygen and not mortal men and—

They are not meant to fall in love, but they do.

When it comes to football he dreams big; dreams of winning, of being a giant, of dragging his childhood team to the top of the podium with his bare feet if he has to. If football is the sun, then he is the earth, spinning around it until the day the fire consumes him and everything that is disappears.

(Some things can’t be explained, they just are. Football is one of them.)

It’s with everything else that Benni’s different.

See, the thing Benni dreams about the most are happy, lazy days of no meaning at all because he’s a simple man at heart, an appreciator of the small things in life.

He’s a white picket fence, mowed grass the right shade of unnatural green kind of man. He’s a blonde wife, two point three kids and a quiet, full life of attending recitals and plays he’ll fall asleep halfway through and art shows of friends who he can’t let go of. He’s a peck on the cheek and sex with the lights off once a week. 

(He loves Lisa. He really does. But with her it’s different. With her it’s not so much love as it is comfort. She’s his closest friend, an extension of himself. She knows everything about him, from the way he pulls out his own hair when he’s nervous to the way he has a habit of cooking a five-course meal at three in the morning when he can't sleep. She knows him and she still cares for him anyway, just like he does for her. It’s hard not to call that love, but still he can’t.

It’s not the same. It just isn’t.)

Mats Hummels doesn’t fit in the scheme of appreciating the small things in life, and yet, despite this, he still exists in both spheres of Benni’s life, something few do and none do it quite like him.

Benni is not sure how he feels about this.

Mats starts in the big sphere. The one with of the impossible dreams that aren’t so impossible with nights of winning and believing; of touching the stars until their fingerprints are burnt and their wings are melt off their backs and they’re falling, a thousand miles an hour, bodies alit with kisses from the sun and it’s a pity, but it’s also a beauty, to see the world from up above.

Mats is a teammate up until he’s not. 

(They kiss for the first on a rainy night because they are a cliché—truly and incredibly, in everything they do. It's then a kiss that’s not a kiss but a force, a storm on their lips, purple bruises and flaming cuts and the desperate need to own, to be, to want. Benni is then emotions he’d never felt before and wondering if something is wrong with him or, if for the first time in his life, something is right.)

Mats is a friend one second and the next he’s kisses on the break of the apocalypse that threaten to rip them apart the way love always tears everyone apart in epic love stories. 

And no, Benni isn’t being self-centered for thinking that, not when with all the galaxies, stars, planets and paths in the universe he and Mats still ended up together despite the odds. That has to mean something, the same way Mats always tasting of oranges when Benni kisses him has to mean something. Everything has to mean something or what would be the point?

Mats is a crowbar forcing open Benni’s chest until there is a space there for him even though Benni is already full to the brim with dreams of falling asleep to bad movies and reading cheap books and things that are stupid and meaningless and _his_.

(“We can’t do this,” Benni says once—just once—because he knows it’s the right thing to say in situations like this.

Never mind that he has no idea what ‘situations like this’ are meant to be other than a vague, pressing notion that having sex with your teammate the day before a match is plain wrong.

“We can,” Mats replies because he’s that kind of insufferable and Benni loves him. He loves him. He shouldn’t, but he does and there’s nothing else to it.

Every word of complaint he has dies in his mouth alongside any wishes he ever had of a normal life. There’s nothing about being who he is—up, up, up above the clouds while standing firm on solid ground—that is normal, so why should this?)

Benni likes to think it’s Mats that carves a path for them both to walk on, but Mats says that it isn’t true, that they both carved whatever there was to be carved and that this was always meant to be and that, “it isn’t fate, it’s just us.”

Benni can’t argue with that.

(They don’t have recitals and plays they fall asleep halfway through or talented artist friends who invite them for gallery shows, but they do have the world and a future and so many choices still to make.)


	5. Isco/Toni/James; never knew that it could mean so much

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isco calls them through Skype after the Ballon D'or ceremony.

James knocks on his door while Toni’s still in the shower, prompting him to open the door with a towel falling down his hips and his wet hair glued to his forehead.

“Isco’s on Skype,” is the only thing James says to him as he steps inside, pausing after Toni closes the door to give him a through onceover.

Toni doesn’t blush.

Well, he doesn’t blush _a lot_.

“Hey, is Toni naked? Let me see!” Isco calls from the laptop.

James doesn’t hesitate to turn the piece of technology around in his arms so that the camera is facing Toni, who waves, definitely blushing now, and says, “I need to go finish showering.”

“Why? You look fine like this, babe. Really,” Isco winks at him and Toni rolls his eyes. He has mostly grown immune to the winks and the ridiculous pet names by now, but standing around in just a towel while James and Isco pretty much leer at him isn’t the best idea when one of them is miles away and they need to catch a six a.m. flight the next morning.

“Two minutes,” he says as he enters the bathroom. He leaves the door open because, well, because he wants to and he can.

Of course, Toni takes longer than two minutes. There’s a mirror facing the shower, right next to the door. He spends a couple of minutes staring at his own reflection, noticing all the places where his skin is soft and yielding and the ones where it is harsh and rigid. He catches James looking at him every once in a while, the laptop half turned towards him, half towards Toni, and forces himself not to look away.

“Isco says I should be worried that Dani is out with Sergio and Pilar right now. Should I?” James shouts at him while Toni’s getting out, a towel around his waist and another on his head and shoulders.

“I don’t know. Are you worried that she’s going to have a threesome with them?” Toni asks, not paying much attention before a thought that makes him pause strikes him. “Would that be a problem?”

They talk about their girlfriends often. Not to muffle their behavior or try to make this thing between the three of them any less than it is, simply in an acknowledging way. They’re not cheating. Their girlfriends are their girlfriends, that relationship as real and open as this one. Toni’s always known it was possible to love more than one person. He never expected to love three and to actually be able to be with all of them, but he’s not complaining.

Isco and James are a part of his life. They understand him better than most and they make him laugh, smile and loosen up when he has to. Jess is Jess. She is amazing, sweet and ruthless, and Toni doesn’t think she’d ever want to date other people like he does, but if she did, who would he be to say no?

James shakes his head. “No,” he says after a couple of seconds, his teeth biting into his bottom lip as he thinks. “I think I’m mostly in awe. I mean Sergio is Sergio.” James waves a hand in the air and Toni gets what he means. Sergio is Sergio, their teammate and friend, no longer someone they fawn over. “But Pilar. She’s intimidating. And hot.”

“And what are we?” Isco asks. “Wall decorations?”

Toni’s digging through his suitcase in search of clean underwear, but he still doesn’t miss the hitch in James’ voice as he says, “You’re Isco and Toni. You’re mine.”

The smile that spills over Toni’s lips is entirely unavoidable. He puts something on and goes up to James to leave a kiss on his forehead. This is the moment when he notices that while he’d been gone, James had taken over the bed, but not before he went through the mini bar and picked a bottle of champagne and all the snacks he could find.

“We’re celebrating,” James says when he sees Toni eyeing the pile of food.

“We’re on a diet,” Toni corrects.

“Live a little, Toni,” Isco shouts over Skype. “Also don’t bother putting on pants. Come on, help a brother out.”

Toni wonders if rolling his eyes so much will eventually damage them.

“I’m not into incest,” he says, despite obliging with Isco’s request and joining James on the bed in nothing but his Hugo Boss boxers. He eyes the candy on James’ side for just a second, but a second is enough for James to notice his interest and pick a piece for him.

“If the Mister gives us trouble tomorrow, I’ll say it’s my fault,” he looks at Toni with his puppy eyes, widened and all innocent looking, his bottom lip jutting out in a cute pout.

Toni lets out a small sigh, all for show, and opens his mouth. He closes his eyes and moans in pleasure at the rich taste of chocolate on his tongue as it dissolves in his mouth. Oh, how he’d missed sugar.

“You’re never this happy to see me,” Isco complains, making Toni look down at him. He smiles, notices where Isco is, sitting against the headboard in his bed at home with the covers to his chin; hair disheveled and only the bedside lamp in his table illuminating his room.

“I’ll make it up to you tomorrow,” Toni grins at the camera.

“You could make it up to me now,” Isco adds, thoughtful expression on his face. One of his hands rests on the keyboard of his laptop while his other is nowhere to be seen. Toni is glad he can blame his blush on having just gotten out of the shower.

He wonders if there will ever come a time where he becomes fully immune to Isco’s comments, takes one good look at Isco’s devilish expression and realizes no, there won’t.

“Are you two having eye sex without me? Because that makes me feel hurt and excluded,” James says, making Toni immediatly look at him, a ‘sorry’ on the verge of falling from his lips.

“Take off your shirt and we can talk then,” Isco says.

“Why do you only care about looks? Are we nothing but hot bodies to you?” James asks, hand over his chest and big doleful eyes out again. The most heartbroken expression is written on the downset corners of his lips.

“You know that ain’t true, love,” Isco says, adding another one of his obvious winks that makes them all laugh.

James gets the champagne glasses from the table and gives one to Toni. “To Isco’s superficial ways,” he says, their glasses clinking together. Toni laughs as Isco lets out a shout in protest.

“No, come on, that’s not fair. I called you guys so we could have a little toast in your honor, not this,” Isco says, sitting up on his bed and picking up a glass from his left, which he then lifts towards the camera.

“To all of us then. To Real Madrid,” Toni says, ever the pragmatic, and to that they can all cheer, downing their respective drinks afterwards.

“Seriously though, congratulations. You both deserve this so much,” Isco says, serious in a way he rarely is.

Toni can’t help his smile, genuine and blooming, and he knows James, who says, “Thank you,” for the both of them, feels the same. “Next year we’ll all be here, joining Toni on the team of the year.”

Toni nods, because they will, of course they will. They play for Real Madrid. They can do anything. Isco smiles, not looking like he quite believes it. If he were here with them, Toni would kiss him right now and repeat the words into his skin, over and over again, until they were etched on his skin like a tattoo.

“Alright. Goodnight, guys. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Isco grins and winks at them, back to his normal self.

“We’re leaving the real celebrations for tomorrow,” Toni says.

James nods, his thumb running circles over the back of Toni’s hand that’s between them.

“Then I’ll see you two tomorrow.”

Toni nods. Tomorrow.


	6. Mario/Marco; too much

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He broke the television remote by throwing it against a wall.

He broke the television remote by throwing it against a wall. The cheap plastic left a small indent on the plaster, which he would have seen if he hadn’t covered his face with his hands the next second.

He’s not even angry anymore. He was and he wants to be, but the anger has already abandoned him after draining him, tired and boneless. There’s nothing left now, except a crack of despair that's slowly seeping through all his defences. It’s the kind of emotion that invades your mind when you less expect it. The one that pervades your thoughts and makes you think ‘This can’t be happening.’

‘This is a nightmare.’

And you pinch yourself, hoping it will help, hoping all those times you read that same sentence and saw someone do it in a movie would mean something now. You pinch the thin skin in the belly of your arm and it hurts, a sharp sting that makes you bite your lip. Nothing else happens.

You hadn’t truly thought it would, nightmares aren’t written in crystal clear definition the way everything else is right now, but you’d hoped.

Marco had hoped too.

The doctors said he’d be able to walk again in a month, after the cast was taken off. Play football in two, after making sure the bones have healed and there are no remaining fractures. Marco had told them, “Thank you,” and left the hospital without a second look back. His feelings had been a mix of shock and denial then, only three hours ago. He’s been drained by those too.

See, the thing is— _the thing is—_ this was going to be his world cup. Not just his, but the whole team. He knows it, they know it, everyone knows it. This wasn’t going to be another one of those “You had a great squad, it was so unfortunate, better luck in four ears.” This was it. They all knew each other well and clicked on the field, they were more bloodthirsty than ever, they could do it and Marco—

Marco wasn’t going to be there, because he’d just broken his fucking ankle in the last fucking warm-up game.

Oh, there’s that anger coming back. It’s a bit like a tidal wave. It shifts forward, seeps back, and then comes knocking again. This time he breaks the vase on his coffee table that his mom gave him when he first moved in.

It doesn’t bring him any feelings of satisfaction. It just brings him broken porcelain shards on the floor.

He hides his face in his hands again, small and terrified. His breath is coming in painful sobs, too close together and threatening to burst his chest and he’s panicking, he knows he is, he’s letting out hefty, hiccups for exhales and sharp whistles for inhales and it’s like his body isn’t working, not just his foot anymore but all of it. He tries to breathe through his nose, slow down, but he can’t, he can barely even open his eyes, can’t hear anything but the sound of his lungs and it’s too much, overwhelmingly bright and painful and awful.

It takes him a couple of minutes to hear the doorbell ring.

He checks his reflection in the mirror just to make sure that yeah, he does look as shit as he feels, and wobbles his way to the door. He’d left the crutches next to it earlier and still feels no desire to pick them up.

He sees through the peephole before he opens the door, because even though he knows the only people who’d show up at his apartment are people who care and want to see him, it doesn’t mean Marco wants to see any of them back.

He opens the door. He doesn’t think he’d do it for anyone else.

Mario doesn’t stare at the cast surrounding Marco’s leg. He doesn’t comment on how bad Marco looks or say he’s sorry or ask if he’s okay. He doesn’t offer any words of comfort because he knows, there’s nothing that could comfort a man who’s just had his dreams crushed. He does pull Marco for a hug, too tight and desperate and Marco knows there are a thousand words on the tip of Mario’s tongue and he’s so grateful, so infinitely grateful, when his friend doesn’t say any of them.

Mario pulls him to bed. Marco knows it was him because he can barely walk right now, much less drag anyone around. Mario pulls him to his bed and Marco lets him. He lets Mario help him take off his football kit, which he’d never bothered to change out of, and slip into an old t-shirt. He lets Mario pull him underneath the covers and tuck his head underneath Mario’s chin.

This is not what he wants. He’s not done lashing out, not done being angry and spiteful because when he’s full of rage, he can’t be bothered with misery.

But this is what he needs, and of course Mario knows that. He’s always known Marco too well.

In the morning, both Mario and Marco know Mario will be gone. He’ll know then, too, that Marco won’t wish to see anyone going to the World Cup for at least a week.

For now, however, he’ll stay.

 


	7. Toni/Isco; season of hope (after the flood)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They go out not with a bang, but with a whimper. 
> 
> Isco has his phone in his pocket during the last minutes of the game. He doesn’t get it out, not even once. Instead, he watches the pitch. He watches his teammates fighting for their last chance at a trophy this season. He watches his friends fight for a last attempt at going out with their heads raised high and their spirits unbowed. He watches the pitch, celebrates each goal as if he’s there with them, adrenaline and energy cursing through him. He doesn’t look at his phone, knows it will break his heart if he does.
> 
> It’s someone else on the bench with him who announces it. A simple, “Barça scored,” right as match hits the eighty minute mark. Isco swallows past the lump in his throat and nods, eyes still fixed on the pitch.

They go out not with a bang, but with a whimper. 

Isco has his phone in his pocket during the last minutes of the game. He doesn’t get it out, not even once. Instead, he watches the pitch. He watches his teammates fighting for their last chance at a trophy this season. He watches his friends fight for a last attempt at going out with their heads raised high and their spirits unbowed. He watches the pitch, celebrates each goal as if he’s there with them, adrenaline and energy cursing through him. He doesn’t look at his phone, knows it will break his heart if he does.

It’s someone else on the bench with him who announces it. A simple, “Barça scored,” right as match hits the eighty minute mark. Isco swallows past the lump in his throat and nods, eyes still fixed on the pitch. 

“Who scored?” someone else asks.

“Messi,” Fábio replies. Isco nods again, even though no one is paying attention to him.

He didn’t expect Atléti to put up a real fight. He knew it was the same as expecting a snail to win a race against a dog. Still, there had been something in him, some dumb part of him full of blind hope, that wanted to believed.

(That is what he does. That is what they all do. There is not a kid out there who wants to be a football player and doesn’t believe in the impossible with everything in him.)

Cristiano scores the third goal, but Isco doesn’t manage anything past a meek yell in celebration. His heart isn’t in it.

When the referee blows the whistle and their teammates look at them, nobody needs to say anything for the message to come across. Barça scored. Atléti didn’t. The league was Barça's. Real Madrid put up a good fight, just not one good enough.

(The bigger the climb, the bigger the fall.)

Isco is one of the first to leave the pitch. He walks with his head held high for as long as he can, and it’s only when all the cameras are off him that he bows his neck and lets his breath shake. His heart clenches in his chest, a physical push and pull that sharpens with every step he takes. It’s amazing how bitter defeat tastes after a 4-1 win.

He’s not quite sure how he makes it to the shower, he just knows he does because the next thing he's aware of is the steaming water hitting right in the face. He stares at the faucet for too long, not doing anything, remains beneath the water spray until his skin is blistering and even then, he doesn’t move away. His teammates join him in the other stalls, one by one. They're all quiet, much more so than usual. A few people congratulate Cristiano, which reminds Isco he should do it too.

The thought isn't enough to make him move, though, and in the end he stays in the showers until nearly everyone else has left. He finds the stream of the water relaxing. It helps unwind his muscles, breaks the tension in his back into small pieces and washes it away. Isco runs his hands across his arms, across his chest and back, and down his legs. He washes away all the dirt and sweat, feels like he’s performing some kind of religious act to wash away the shame, then feels even more ridiculous for thinking so.

They are Real Madrid. This is not how they act. Real Madrid doesn’t bow their heads. They don’t cower in shame or hide. They stand tall. They fight.

Isco turns off the faucet and walks out of the shower, feeling a little better with himself as his words run across his head.

This feeling is short-lived, disappearing the second he sees Iker in the locker room, sat with his back to one of the lockers, head thrown back and eyes closed.

(It’s an image that will stay with Isco for years to come. Their captain weighted down by the weight of the world. Iker was strong, but he wasn’t Atlas. He wasn’t born to carry all that pressure on his shoulders.)

Isco walks up to him and puts a hand on Iker’s shoulder. He’s not sure what he’s trying to convey. That he’s there for him? He’s not the right person for the job. Sergio should be here, not him.

It doesn’t help that there is talk in the locker room. There is always talk in the locker room. Isco tries not to get involved. It’s none of his business and in any case, he knows it’d only make things worse if he said something.

Still, there is talk. About Carlo and Iker leaving. Mainly Iker. Isco struggles to accept it, because at the end of the day, Iker is Real Madrid and Real Madrid is Iker and Isco doesn’t want him to leave. Not like this. Not after they were thrown of the Champions League by Juventus, thrown out of the Copa del Rey by Atléti and second in the league to Barcelona. This is not fitting end for someone like Iker.

Iker opens his eyes and stares at Isco. A small smile takes its time in making its way to Iker’s mouth, but it gets there. Iker takes Isco’s hand, squeezes it just once and gets up. He pats Isco on the back as he leaves. “Plane leaves at eleven,” he says. Isco nods.

Afterwards, his eyes scan the rest of the locker room. The only people still there are Marcelo, Cristiano and Pepe. Isco knows there’s even less he could say to them, so he gets dressed quickly and leaves. In the bus, the silence from before invades every inch of free space. Isco knows where he’s going to seat without even looking to see if the seat is empty.

Toni has his eyes closed and earbuds in when Isco drops down on the space next to him. He blinks in surprise at Isco's sudden appearance. The smile that takes over his lips is much faster to come than Iker’s had been. Isco finds himself smiling back before he knows he’s doing it.

“Want to listen?” Toni asks, taking out one of his earbuds and handing it to Isco, who takes it without hesitation. He is not quite sure what he’s expecting, but he knows it’s not soft piano music with an electronic vibe, reminiscent of old video game soundtracks.

“Helps me sleep,” Toni adds when Isco looks at him with curiosity in the frown between his eyebrows.

“I like it,” Isco says. He settles next to Toni, and they listen to the rest of Toni’s music until they get to the airplane.

That’s when the nervous tension starts to go down his spine. It’s easy to ignore at first, this nagging thought in the back of his head, an itch underneath his skin. It grows bigger as time passes and each of his teammates falls into slumber. His iPad isn’t enough to keep him busy and neither is Toni’s relaxing music. Isco’s leg starts to move.

Toni puts a hand on his leg and presses down until Isco stops moving. “All right?” 

“Been better,” Isco says. He shrugs. Toni’s hand moves higher up his leg.

“Anything I can do for you?” he asks. Even if Isco were one-hundred percent socially inept, which he is not, there’s no way he’d miss the connotation behind Toni’s words.

They unbuckle their seat belts in a flash and move together to the bathroom. None of their teammates seem to notice them, and if some do, they don’t say anything.

Isco would be lying if he said he has never thought about having sex with Toni in an airplane bathroom. He has, usually when they’re in a plane together. Usually, though, he imagines doing this after a win. The scene he pictures most often is after they won the Champions League. They are laughing then, drunk in joy and champagne. All of their teammates whistle as they see them walk towards the bathroom, because they’re assholes and that is what they do. Toni flushes in embarrassment and shakes his head. Isco doesn’t give a shit. The sex is amazing, even though logic dictates it should be mediocre at best. It is messy, far too fast and easy, the way good things should always be. They love every moment of it because it’s them and they’ve just won the Champions League and there is nothing not to like.

(In another universe, things would go differently. In another life, they win everything there is to be won in Toni’s first season at Real Madrid and their blood is white, their hearts are white, everything in them is white, white _, white_ to the core and so full of pride. In another universe, they do not burn as they fall. Their wings do not melt. They are not Icarus, doomed to fail the second his feet left the ground.)

(This is nothing like that.)

This is slow. It's bitter. It is so full of love it makes Isco want to tear his hair out. Toni has him backed against a wall and he’s rocking against him, taking his time as he explores Isco’s mouth. He runs his hands over Isco’s chest, lingering motions that promise so much but leave without accomplishing anything.

Isco groans. “Toni, come on." He needs more. He needs Toni to flip him around and fuck Isco until neither of them can remember their names. He needs his whole body to ache, for his bones to creak and his muscles to tense in protest. He needs to feel his skin break as Toni's kisses turn sharper, his movements stronger. He needs it so badly his lungs can barely function.

(He needs something that will make him forget.)

“What do you want?” Toni asks, and Isco wonders how it’s not obvious.

Isco looks at the sink. There is a bar of soap there instead of liquid soap. Of course that would be his luck.

“Just— can you—“ Isco doesn’t know how to put it into words. He raises his arms above his head and locks his wrists together. Toni gets the hint.

Isco can’t move. He cannot move a single inch, not with Toni’s whole body weighting him down and his arms pinned against the wall. He cannot move and he can’t for the life of him explain why that makes it so much easier to breathe.

Toni bites the skin where Isco’s neck meets his shoulder and Isco jerks, powerless and pulled too tight. Toni starts leaving marks after that. Harsh bites followed by soothing kisses. His free hand pushes Isco’s pants down, but not his own, and Isco keens at the sensation of Toni’s jeans against his bare skin.

It is too much all at once and he comes like that, pushed against a wall and entirely at someone else’s mercy.

He gets down on his knees the second Toni moves away from him, and this part is easy too.

“Better?” Toni asks as they walk back to their seats. Isco reaches for his hand and laces their fingers together.

“Yeah. Thanks.” 

“It’s fine,” Toni replies and that is all they say. There are no pep talks, no motivational speeches, no ‘we’ll do better next year’ because it’s still too early. It is, believe it or not, just what Isco needs.


	8. Marc/Rafinha; “Hey, have you seen the...? Oh.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was after a game and most of the team had already left the locker room.

It was after a game and most of the team had already left the locker room. They’d tied against a minor team at Camp Nou, which meant the air in the room had been overly stiff as it always was, not necessarily negative, but not positive either. Rafa was taking his time getting dressed, not worried about getting home. He was looking for his shirt, which he’d seen Neymar steal earlier in the night to make fun of, as if wearing a simple black dress shirt was funny compared to what the other guys were.

He turned towards his left to ask Adriano, one of the few people left, if he’d seen it. “Hey, have you seen my..?” his voice trailed off, distracted by the sight in front of him, which was definitely not Adriano. “ _Oh_.”

There were lots of good looking men in their team. Rafinha knew, he had a mirror. He’d seen most of them naked at one point or another, since modesty and Dani Alves in the locker room didn’t combine well. Nonetheless, that didn’t mean Rafinha _looked_. It was impolite to look. 

It was quite hard to stop looking too.

“What?” Marc ter Stegen asked. Rafinha didn’t even notice his own mouth was hanging open until he snapped it shut.

“My shirt. Have you seen my shirt?” he asked as he stared very, very hard at Marc and not Marc’s half-naked body. The only part of him hidden from sight were his hips and the top of his legs, covered by white towel far too small for him.

Marc looked around, shrugging before he looked at Rafinha. “No. You can have one of mine if you’d like,” he offered.

Marc had some at least ten centimeters on him and anything he owned would look far too big on Rafinha, but before the man could say anything, Marc was already handing him one of his shirts, so Rafinha had no choice but to take it.

“Thanks,” he said, making sure to keep eye contact and not to let his eyes wander.

“No problem,” Marc replied and then he  _winked_ , as if he knew damn well what the sight of him half-naked was doing to Rafinha. He walked away, his towel falling on the floor as he made his way to his locker. This time, Rafinha didn’t try to stop himself from looking.

What an ass, he thought, both figuratively and literally.


	9. Toni/Isco; “I mean… I could give you a massage?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isco wasn’t sure how they had gotten to this point.

Isco wasn’t sure how they had gotten to this point.

Actually, he did, and as most things in life, he blamed it on Nacho and Dani, who had decided to tackle him to the floor during training after Isco scored a rather splendid, if he did say so himself, goal. The celebration was appreciated up until the point the rest of his teammates decided to join the massive pile. Somehow, in the midst of full grown adults jumping on him, Isco had twisted his back and pulled all his muscles in the wrong direction, which was as painful as it sounded.

The first person to notice something was wrong was Iker, after Isco had his breath pushed out of lungs by the sudden pain. Isco was carried off-pitch by Sergio and Iker and after a through medical inspection, the doctors told him he was fine and he’d just have to take it easy for the next day or so.

This didn’t stop Nacho and Dani from being told off by Iker, which Isco watched with a smile on his face. Practice continued, a little quieter than before. The medical staff helped him walk to the locker room, leaving him there on his own. Isco got dressed while sitting down, moving gingerly and taking his time. His teammates showed up while he was putting on his socks, and Isco chatted with them as he normally would.

He got lost in a conversation with Fábio about their new cleats and by the time Isco was ready to leave, the locker room was once again deserted. This was around the same time Isco discovered that he was, in fact, incapable of walking on his own without pain shooting across his back.

Right. Right. This was… sort of fine.

Isco gritted his teeth and pushed up on his feet, willing his stupid body to move. The garage was only two hundred meters from here. He could manage one hundred meters.

“What part of take it easy did you miss?” someone asked. Isco nearly sprained himself on the floor when he looked around to see who it was. He was saved from certain death by two deft arms wrapped around his waist. “Idiot, stop trying to move on your own.”

“I’m fine. It’s just a minor muscle sprain,” Isco said, fists clenched by his side as fire racked across his back.

“Sure it is,” Toni replied, patting him on the chest. “Can you stand on your own for two seconds?”

Isco took a deep breath. He could certainly  _try_. “Yeah,” he said.

Toni gave him a searching look, nodding when he found what he wanted. He left Isco for a second, moving to gather both his and Isco’s stuff. He helped Isco get to the garage. Isco was about to thank him for the help when he noticed that they weren’t walking towards his car.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m taking you home. If you seriously think you can drive right now, you’re an even bigger idiot than I thought, and that’s saying something,” Toni replied, making Isco scoff.

“When did you get so sarcastic?” he asked, the petulance in his words exacerbated by the way he was leaning so heavily on Toni, his face nearly hidden in Toni’s neck.

“I’ve always been sarcastic, I just didn’t know enough Spanish before to express myself properly,” Toni replied. Isco huffed. he had to give him that.

Toni drove him home. He didn’t have to ask for directions once, which was a bit surprising, considering he’d only been there a couple of times. Isco didn’t question it, too tired to say anything. He had to be helped out of the car out of the car and up his own front steps. Toni walked him all the way to Isco’s sofa, which Isco fell onto the second he was close enough to do so.

“When I die,” he said, stopping mid-sentence to breathe, “avenge my death by killing Dani and Nacho,” another pause, “thanks.”

Toni laughed. He didn’t say anything for a while, which made Isco think he’d left before he asked. “Do you… Well… I mean… I could give you a massage?”

And  _that_  was how they had gotten to where they were now, with Isco lying on the sofa, shirt discarded on the floor, and Toni sitting on the edge of the couch, softly massaging Isco’s back.

“What the fuck?” Isco groaned, incapable of using polite speech.

This was it. This was the highlight of his life. He had reached the peak and everything from then on was going to go downhill. Isco melted on the sofa, reduced to a mass of soft groans and moans. He had tried to hide those at first, but as Toni’s fingers kept pressing onto his pliant skin and pushing in all the right places, most of Isco’s self-control had gone out the window.

“I took a massaging course two years ago. Helps me when I have a muscle sprain on my legs,” Toni said.

“You don’t say,” Isco replied.

Toni chuckled, but didn’t reply. He continued massaging Isco’s back. When he was done, he left his hands on Isco’s waist and asked. “Wanna turn around?”

Isco was not quite sure where this was going, but he was too relaxed and content to say no. He pushed up on his arms, belatedly realizing doing so made his back ache, although definitely not as badly as it would have before. Isco groaned, this time in pain, and Toni was immediately there. The movement brought them close together, face to face, chest to chest. Their mouths grazed each other, entirely by accident. Isco inhaled sharply. Toni murmured, “oh.”

They paused. Isco leaned forward, body moving entirely on instinct as it often did. Toni didn’t lean back.

The first thing Isco noticed was that Toni’s lips were chapped. They were chapped and dry and when Isco licked them, they parted without hesitance for him. Toni helped them move and without breaking the kiss, they switched positions so that Toni was the one sitting on the couch and Isco was the one on top of him.

“Okay,” Isco murmured when they parted. They rested their foreheads against one another, sharing heat and contact. “So maybe you won’t need to kill Dani and Nacho after all.”

Toni laughed.


	10. Toni/Isco; "I swear it was an accident."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Toni loves their school's library. His favorite place in the palace is the Quidditch field, obviously, followed by the lake and the kitchen, because there's nothing quite like raiding the cupboards for leftover food and taking a nap by the water underneath the pouring sunlight to make one feel at peace with the world. Still, Toni has a quite appreciation for the library. Large windows cover the walls, letting in all the sunlight, and it's easy to get lost in the endless corridors full of books. All of the palace is magical, from the wooden floors to the plaster ceilings to the moving paintings covering the walls, but there's something about the library that seems even more enchanting and more powerful.

Toni loves their school's library. His favorite place in the palace is the Quidditch field, obviously, followed by the lake and the kitchen, because there's nothing quite like raiding the cupboards for leftover food and taking a nap by the water underneath the pouring sunlight to make one feel at peace with the world. Still, Toni has a quite appreciation for the library. Large windows cover the walls, letting in all the sunlight, and it's easy to get lost in the endless corridors full of books. All of the palace is magical, from the wooden floors to the plaster ceilings to the moving paintings covering the walls, but there's something about the library that seems even more enchanting and more powerful.

Some of his teachers say the root of all magic is in words, that it all comes there. Toni's not sure he agrees, but whenever he finds himself in the library, feeling small and tiny and like there's enough magic in the air to melt his bones, he can see what they mean.

Toni is studying in the library, learning about the type of magic they use in Asia and how the major differences between Chinese, Mongolian and Japanese magic, when James barges through the two front doors like a man on a mission and sprints towards him.

“You need to come,” he says. It says a lot about their lives that Toni doesn’t need to hear anything else before he’s jumping from his seat and running after him. They get shouted at by the two library workers, and this will surely come to bite Toni in the ass later when he needs to request a book for longer than the allowed time, but he’ll worry about that later.

“What happened?” Toni asks as they speed through busy corridors and are angrily gestured at by paintings who frankly need to mind their own business and stop being so judgmental. 

“Isco,” James replies. Toni sighs. No surprises there then.

They run past the classrooms on the first floor and then climb up the east staircase up to the fourth floor, where the astrology classrooms are located. Toni remembers Isco and James talking about using their free period this afternoon to work on their Astrology paper. They’d asked Toni to come along, but Toni had said no because a) it was their paper, not his, thank you very much and b) he had his own paper to write and, as always, he was painfully late, which was why he was still learning about things he should have memorized by heart by now.

James took him to the last astronomy classroom in the corridor, but he stopped before he opened the door, giving Toni time to catch up and be the one to twist the handle on the door.

And then Toni froze.

“I swear it was an accident,” he heard someone say, but the words barely registered in his ears.

“What is this?” he asked, staring in awe at the starry sky above him where all kinds of magical creatures, from centaurs to mermaids to unicorns, took form and grew alive. Their bodies were made of stars, traced from constellations as old as life itself. They had heaving chests and beating hearts. Their light filled up the whole ceiling and moved in a breathtaking spectacle. Toni stared, transfixed, unable to look away. It was beautiful. Terrifying and beautiful. 

“It’s a spell. We tried it just for fun. We didn’t know this would happen,” Isco said.

“Now we can’t get any of them to disappear and they’re starting to grow restless,” James added.

Toni blinked at them for a second before he went back to eyeing the figures in the sky, which grew larger and bigger in number with each passing second. Now that they said that, Toni could see what they meant. There was a centaur near the door, looming over it, and the mermaid by the window was trying to find a way to open it.

“Okay, let’s focus, if you cast the spell, you can end it,” Toni said, which, looking back, was not his greatest idea ever, considering his words had all the figures in the room stopping in the tracks to look at him.

Aw, shit.


	11. Toni/Isco; the night is a heavy heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An infinitude of thoughts went through Isco’s head as he walked down Panizo Street, the most remarkable one being the most simple as well.
> 
> _Shit._

An infinitude of thoughts went through Isco’s head as he walked down Panizo Street, the most remarkable one being the most simple as well.

_Shit._

There was a man following him, not ten meters behind him, who had been following him since he left the bar, ten minutes ago. Every now and then, Isco tried to catch a glimpse of him, just in case he needed to give the police a description when they found Isco lying in a ditch. If those were Isco’s last words, he was going to make them count. Although, truth be told, there wasn’t much to say.

The man had his hands in the pockets of a green park with a hoodie so big and fat it covered his eyes. Despite not being able to see them, Isco could still feel them focused on the back of his head, the man’s gaze so pointed it was like a physical force stabbing his skull. He was tall, far taller than Isco, which didn’t say much. Half the earth’s population was taller than Isco.

Oh, and because that was just Isco’s luck, he was also built like an ox and had the face of someone who ate nails for breakfast. 

Of all the men to be robbed by, Isco just had to be robbed by the one who could also beat him to pulp in five seconds. Fan-fucking-tastic.

Isco started walking faster even though there was no point. He was still twenty minutes away from his apartment and at four a.m. on a Friday morning, he wasn’t bound to find a lot of other people on the street. At some point, big and burly was going to take the steps separating them, probably in one big leap with his freaky giant legs, and he was going to rob Isco.

Just as he thought that, Isco heard a snicker behind him.

It was then that he realized being mugged might be the least of his worries.

Isco turned to the street to his left, a bad call, since this one was narrower than the last and seemed to be full of little alleys. For the twentieth time since he left the bar, he glanced at his phone, dead and useless, its battery drained from one too many games played on the toilet. Isco couldn’t even count on Dani noticing he didn’t make it home because, four hours ago, Isco had told him not to expect him back until noon the next day. The plan had been to spend the night out and then head straight to university the next morning, but then Nacho had gone ahead and gotten drunk too fast and too hard, and the night ended rather abruptly, with Nacho taking a cab home and Isco deciding to walk home to save money and get some fresh air.

What a tremendously stupid idiotic. He was about to get murdered because he wanted some fucking _fresh air_.

Behind him, another snicker, another shiver down Isco’s spine. The guy was closing in on him. Isco looked ahead, trying to see if there were any shops open, anywhere he could hide. There was only one option and it wasn’t a good one — most of the phone booths in Madrid were dirty fossils, reeking of piss and no longer functional. Isco glimpsed big and burly’s reflection in a shop’s window, a few meters closer than he had been before. 

Isco sprinted like there was a firecracker in his ass.

Once he was inside the claustrophobic box, he found that it had a lock, blessed be the metal creation, and that the phone had all its components still in place.

Isco began counting coins. There was a tap on the door, and the guy’s voice, quiet, polite and as rough as Isco had imagined it to be. “Hey, I need to use that,” he said. Isco ignored that, looking at the coins in his palm like they contained the secrets of the universe. Coins. Coins he could do.

He continued counting them and when he had the right number, he put them through the thin slot, one by one. He had just enough to make one call.

Another knock on the door. The guy’s voice again. Not so polite this time. “I need to use that,” he repeated. “Come out.”

“Nope,” Isco whispered and pulled the phone to his ear. He pressed in Dani’s number with shaky fingers, praying he’d got it right to whatever deity might be up there, in that starless sky, listening to the voices of all the people like him, terrified out of their minds.

The phone rang and rang and Isco punched the stupid machine just as big and burly kicked the door behind him, rocking the whole booth. “Fuck,” Isco whispered. “Now is not the time for you to be passed out in front of the television, Dani. Come on, just pick up, pick up please.” The number continued to ring. Just as Isco was about to hang up, the ringing stopped and silence filled the line. “Hello?” Isco called.

“Hello?” someone replied, someone who was definitely not Dani.

“Shit.” Isco’s grip on the plastic phone tightened, making his fingers ache. “You’re not Dani, are you?” he asked still, desperate to hear he was wrong, to have Dani’s voice on the other end of the line, a laugh and a ‘sorry, just messing with you’ followed by a ‘don’t go anywhere, I’ll go get you’.

“No, sorry. I think you’ve got the wrong person—“ the guy said and Isco could hear it already, the end of his interest, the move to put down the phone.

“No, please, don’t hang up. I need help,” Isco whispered.

As Isco spoke, big and burly outside the booth kicked it again and yelled. “Fucking come out of there already!” The guy had the worst timing.

“What’s going on?” asked the guy on the other end of the line. He had an accent, northern european maybe, which became more pronounced as the last webs of sleep abandoned his words.

“I’m in a phone booth and there’s guy outside trying to rob me. He’s been following me for the past ten minutes and I’m still twenty minutes from home. My phone is dead and when I tried to call my roommate I got you instead and the guy— is trying to— kick— down— the door.” The last few words were intermitted by loud bangs as, true to word, big and burly attempted to break down the phone booth’s door through sheer force alone.

Considering how old the metal structure was and the size of big and burly, there was going to be a winner in this battle and it wasn’t the phone booth.

“Are you okay?” asked guy-on-the-phone-who-wasn’t-Dani.

“For now,” Isco replied, trying to laugh in a poor attempt to make light of the situation and failing. His sarcasm, for once, was a hinder more than a helpful hand.

“Where are you?” the guy asked. Isco gave him the street he’d been in before and told him where he’d changed his path. “That’s not far from me, actually.” There was rustling on the other end of the line, keys being picked up and a door being open. “Mario, I need you!” the guy yelled.

“Wait, who’s Mario? Are you coming to get me?” Isco asked.

“My roommate. There’s strength in numbers and we might need a getaway driver.” The guy replied. There was more yelling and then the guy on the phone spoke in a language Isco didn’t recognize. The guy stalking Isco kicked the door again. The fact that he hadn’t left was a testament to many things, his intelligence not being one of them. “What’s your name?” the guy on the phone asked as a door slammed in the background.

“Isco. Isco Alarcón.”

“Isco. That’s a good name. I live five minutes from where you are, so I’ll be there before you know it.”

“Five? Really?”

“Well, fifteen, but at this late hour, I see red lights as guide lights more than anything else.” Isco smiled, despite himself.

There was a beep from the phone. Isco’s call was about to end. “Shit, the time is about to ran out.”

“Five minutes,” the guy replied. “We’re coming to get you. Just stay where you are. We’re coming.”

“Jesus Christ,” Isco whispered as the call disconnected and he was met with silence again.

The guy continued kicking the booth, systematically, as if he was caught in a trance. Isco shivered, goose bumps covering the skin of his arms and neck. He felt as if his blood was suddenly cold, trapped inside his veins and unable to move, slowly freezing him to death. Seconds dragged by, painful and heavy.

Five minutes were an eternity when you were cornered and there was a guy shouting obscenities at you less than a meter away. Isco began to regret not calling 112 when he had the chance. It would have been easier, but he’d been distracted, not thinking clearly. Being stalked does that to a person.

Isco bit his nails as he waited. He wondered if the stranger was really speeding through red lights to come get it. Now that the call was over the whole thing seemed a dream, impossible and improbable.

A car rolled down the street, moving with caution as if it was looking for something. It stopped in front of the phone booth. Isco exhaled for the first time in twenty minutes.

A man came out and he was tall, as tall as big and burly, although not as muscular. To compensate for this, he was holding a metal crowbar. He looked big and burly in the eye and tapped the phone booth in eye, a signal for Isco to come out. Isco did, his eyes fixed on big and burly as well. Now that more people had entered the frame his demeanor had changed and he was backed against the wall, evidently afraid.

Isco didn’t think about him any further, running to get in the backseat of the car. His rescuer followed close behind. They were out of there in seconds, the nightmare quickly discarded as they sped away. There was someone else on the wheel. Mario, most likely.

“Are you okay?” Isco’s rescuer asked.

“Yes, Thank you. Thank you so much.” Isco breathed deeply.

“It was fine,” the guy replied. 

Isco nodded and shook his head at the same time. He needed time. Time to pick himself up, to digest what had happened and to figure out what he wanted to say.

“I just realized I never got your name,” he ended up saying. That was simple enough.

The guy turned around in his seat and smiled at Isco, offering him his hand. “Oh, I’m Toni.”

Isco took it and smiled back.

 


	12. Toni/Isco; Won't you stop running away when I kiss you?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Let’s play a game called ‘you stop running away when I kiss you’,” Isco says, leaning back against the tiled wall, one leg crossed over the other in a pose that is far too casual to be natural.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally meant to be a college!AU so don’t mind all the drama | 1373w | PG-13

"Let’s play a game called ‘you stop running away when I kiss you’,” Isco says, leaning back against the tiled wall, one leg crossed over the other in a pose that is far too casual to be natural.

"Sounds like a boring game,” Toni replies in a voice that is not is own, with a desperate type of courage that he rarely so feels. He is fueled by the very same instinct that’s brought this situation upon him. Only this time he’s been caught unprepared and there’s no escape possible. Isco is blocking the exit out of the shower room and with only a towel in his possession, Toni is trapped.

"Sounds like a conversation just waiting to happen. Come on, Toni? What are you running from?” Isco asks. He sounds genuine, is the troubling thing. Toni laughs, a bubble of noise that floats through his throat and bursts when it comes into open air, echoing across the otherwise quiet room. The sound disrupts them both. For Toni, it is an admission that he feels anything other than disdain, something he’d been trying to hide for a week. For Isco, it is a surprise.

"Do you seriously not know?” Toni asks. Isco seems trapped in the moment, too stunned to speak.

"You were the one who kissed me first. You were the one who started all of this,” Isco says. It’s not the first time he says it, but Toni hopes it will be the last.

"I told you, that was a mistake.” Toni takes a step forward, thinking the certainty in his tone will be enough to make Isco move. He’s wrong, of course. This conversation might be over for him, but it is not over for Isco, who doesn’t move an inch.

"I know you want this just as much as I do,” Isco tells him.

"You’re wrong,” Toni says. He won’t— _can’t_ —meet Isco’s eyes. 

"Stop lying!” Isco orders, his voice raising into a fully formed shout. He moves towards Toni, changes his mind halfway through and stops in the middle of the shower area. He looks distinctly out of place standing on the wet plastic floor in his beige slacks, blue polo and frayed sneakers.

Isco is a framed picture of a smiling family hanging on a broken wall. He is a moment of stillness in the midst of a tropical storm, the eye of the hurricane. He is interminable lies and a lifetime of judgement. He is Toni’s parents saying ‘we don’t understand’ and the mister telling them they won’t be playing for a while. It’s the media turning against them like savage beasts and their lives, families and past smeared everywhere. It’s the weight of the world, the sun and a million asteroids on their shoulders.

He’s enough for Toni to say, "I’m not lying. You’re the one who’s confused,” while still staring at the plastic mats covering the floor, transfixed by their grey symmetry.

Isco sighs. "Why do you have to be like this? You could be honest with me for once. I feel like I deserve that much.”

He does. Of course he does. Toni’s the one who is a coward because Isco’s smile is fucking perfect and he looks like a painted demi-god, the work of a renaissance master, with his hands and his hair and his eyes. Toni’s known Isco for three years, been his friend for two, been his close friend for one and he’s still not over Isco’s eyes. Sometimes he could swear Isco’s eyes were the universe, infinite and ever reaching and far too smart. Isco is brilliant, he is absolutely brilliant, and Toni can’t deal with him. He cannot deal with his wants and demands and the fact that he doesn’t fit into any of this—the empty shower room, still steaming from when the two of them and their teammates had been showering after practice; Toni’s life plan, simple, narrow and easy, if the rules of the game would stop changing; their lives as two straight football players for the biggest club in the world.

Isco doesn’t fit and still Toni wants him so, _so_ bad.

It is more than ache, more than a momentous desire, more than a phase. It is terrifying. 

"I can’t be what you want of me,” he says. His spanish bends fluently under his tongue, the words rolling with no rhythm or music, but with enough logic that Isco doesn’t have to strain his ears to understand him.

"I just want you to be honest,” Isco tells him, his voice barely above a whisper.

"And then what? I admit it and then _what_?” Toni asks, his voice rising with every word as his temper flares. He’s tired of this. Tired of constantly running away and being seen as the bad guy, the one who can’t fucking own up to his feelings because he’s _that_ emotionally inept, when the truth is there’s nothing to own up to because there’s nothing between us. There can never be anything.  "Do you think me saying those words will magically fix this? That we’ll date afterwards and live happily ever after? That’s not how things work, Isco.”

"I’m not asking you for that!” 

"Well you might as well be!” Toni shouts back, feeling cold and drenched and hating every molecule of flesh that is his pathetic existence. Isco looks has strung as he did, as if he’s been pulled too tight around the edges and he’s about to spontaneously combust. His face is a deep-set red from the steam and the anger, but his hands are white and trembling, wrapped like balls into two tight fists. If that’s how Isco looks, Toni could only imagine himself. With his luck, he’s flushed all over, with the pink going forever down, past his neck and into his collarbones and chest.

"We could try. It’s 2017. We don’t have to lie like people used to anymore,” Isco says. There is a cadence to his words that states he’s clearly thought this out and rehearsed his words. He’s making everything so much harder than it has to be. Toni hates him and he loves him all at once.

"I can’t. I have a family and a career to think of.”

"You’re divorced,” Isco argues. "So am I.”

"You’re twenty-five. You still have years ahead of you,” Toni says.

"Seriously? That the excuse you’re going with now?”

Toni shivers. He’s been standing there naked and wet for the past ten minutes. Isco has always had the best time timing.

"That’s more than enough,” Toni says, done with this conversation, done with this whole argument. He moves to leave, but Isco’s right there, blocking the way. He grabs Toni by the arm and pulls him close. Before Toni can protest, a pair of lips connect to his. They’re both soft and solid, reserved and passionate, wanting and cautious. A dichotomy of emotions dislocates the world ten angles to the left, not enough to be noticed, but enough for Toni to feel out of place.

"You’ve got to stop doing that,” Toni whispers against Isco’s mouth. His mind is flashing all kinds of warning signs, ordering him to leave, but his body won’t cooperate, traitorous thing.

"Again, you started it,” Isco says, his hands slipping down Toni’s arms until they reach the towel around Toni’s hips. Toni tries to hold the fabric in place, but after a few tugs it’s on the floor alongside Toni’s dignity.

After this is over, he’ll leave. No matter how much they want this, it won’t happen. "You’ll regret this one day,” Toni says. It’s a new line, one he hasn’t said in the many times they’ve had similar conversations. Isco looks up, eyes widening in surprise.

"I don’t understand how you can say that with such conviction.”

"I don’t understand how you don’t.”

They don’t fit. They will never fit. Maybe in another life, but not like this, not in real madrid’s locker room, after practice and the rest of the team has headed home, not with their careers, not with any of it. It is a slippery slope from where they’re standing, all the way down the end.


	13. Toni/Isco; so no one told you life was gonna be this way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the thing is, the match against Valencia isn’t even the last straw.
> 
> It is a straw, a drop in the ocean of reasons why it is time for Isco to leave, to hang his shirt and wave goodbye to the fans, send a few kisses and hug a few people and whisper, “I’ll miss you,” and mean it. Say, “It was good while it lasted,” and believe it. Promise “It’s not personal,” and lie. Of course lie. How could it not be personal? It is his career, his life, his blood. Changing colors, crests and faiths because the rug is being swept under his feet and he knows the wolves won’t give him the chance to stand up again — of course it is personal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1990w | this fic is a mess but so is real madrid at the moment so i guess they match. this is unbeta'ed and probably full of typos. i'll do something about those later (in hell).

And the thing is, the match against Valencia isn’t even the last straw.

It is _a_ straw, a drop in the ocean of reasons why it is time for Isco to leave, to hang his shirt and wave goodbye to the fans, send a few kisses and hug a few people and whisper, “I’ll miss you,” and mean it. Say, “It was good while it lasted,” and believe it. Promise “It’s not personal,” and lie. Of course lie. How could it not be personal? It is his career, his life, his blood. Changing colors, crests and faiths because the rug is being swept under his feet and he knows the wolves won’t give him the chance to stand up again — of course it is personal.

But the match against Valencia isn’t the last straw. That game is a blank space in his mind, a should have been that died early, didn’t even have time to become a prayer before he was told, “You’re not starting,” early in the day, as if he didn’t know already, as if the silent treatment Benítez has been giving him the past few weeks, which includes ignoring him during practice, isn’t all the tell-take Isco needs to know he has been shoved to the side once more

Oh, to be stranded in another planet’s orbit, so close and so far to everything and nothing at the same time. What an exquisite feeling of frustration.

That’s what being on the bench is like for all of them, being useless and forced to watch your team, your friends, your _heart_ from the sidelines. And that’s what Isco feels during every goddamn match nowadays and he knows it won’t change, not until Benítez leaves.

See, the equation is simple, even Isco Jr. could solve it: if Benítez stays, Isco doesn’t play because Benítez doesn’t like him, doesn’t trust him, thinks he’s immature and selfish and lazy no matter what Isco does. On the other side, if Isco stays, that means he doesn’t start, doesn’t play, gets to warm-up until his muscles have melted and the referee is blowing the whistle. For Isco to start, Benítez has to be replaced by someone more competent and that won’t happen because Pérez has a point to prove, the point that he knows best, and he won’t let one player stand in his way.

Isco finds it hilarious that it’s not even just one player, it’s all of them, Sergio, James, Luka, Marcelo, Toni, Cristiano and more. It’s the older players and the younger ones, the guys who play every match and the ones who barely see the pitch. They are all exasperated and Pérez knows but he won’t budge, won’t waver. He is a dictator, Sergio said, once, laughing as the words slipped from his mouth even though there was no mirth in his eyes. 

Everyone sees it. Everyone knows it. Everyone feels it, but no one feels it quite like Isco. He doesn’t have James’ price tag, Luka’s expertise and Toni’s solidity, his cold detached confidence that can hold anything at bay. He doesn’t have their name or their value. He can’t fight a manager and a president, would be foolish to even try, so when the other clubs come knocking, it’s not even a choice, is it?

He knows what people will say later. He knows how their words will sting. Rumors and dim-witted truths about how his heart was never in Real Madrid. How he was only biding his time until he could leave for a club who would pay a fatter check. How he had been too weak to fight for a spot on the starting XI.

Those would be lies, all of them, as simple as that.

Isco wasn’t born loving Real Madrid, but he would go to the grave as a merengue, with white in his veins and memories of victories bigger than life, bigger than the whole universe, imprinted on the back of his eyelids because that’s what it meant to be a Madrista. To love Real Madrid and to be a part of it, ready to take to the stars and see the whole universe — there is no greater feeling in football, nothing that can compare.

Isco loves Real Madrid. He can’t _not_ love Real Madrid, not even now, with the lungs of the beast full of parasites, the same ones that are doing everything they can to undermine his confidence and kick him out.

It’s for the best, for both of them, if Isco leaves. Maybe the beast will run for longer without him there. As for Isco, he is suffocating. His wings have been nailed to the ground with blood seeping through them, covering him and the pitch in dark red. There is nothing for him Madrid, not while he can’t play. 

After deciding this, there isn’t much left to do but tell people about his decision. The first person he talks to is his father, who says he supports him unconditionally, and then his manager, who says he’ll start making calls right away. 

Then Isco has to decide how to break the news to his teammates and that is where he flounders. In a way, they all know already. They’ve read the signs like he has, done the maths, hear the rumors. But knowing and hearing it from him, well, they’re different things, aren’t they? And Isco won’t leave before he says goodbye. He won’t let them take this, too, from him.

He debates on who to tell first for a long time and settles for Sergio because it’s Sergio, who is both the captain and a good friend, who will understand and hate the decision at the same time. He won’t say, “stay,” and he won’t say, “good call,” and Isco will appreciate him for it. It makes sense that he tells Sergio first, but plans are only plans; they don’t always work.

So he doesn’t break the news to Sergio first, because Sergio isn’t there after the match against Valencia, the match that isn’t the last straw but it’s as good as in Isco’s life where everything seems to be a fucking straw, a goddamn drop the size of a whale, another push and shove direction of the cold north. Sergio isn’t there, he’s sharing a room with Marcelo, but Toni is. There, Isco means. Toni is always there. He’s a right place and time type of man. Isco isn’t surprised to find him in Isco’s room after the match even though he was meant to be rooming with Nacho.

“Benzema is in my room,” Toni says as an explanation when Isco walks in.

“Doing what?” Isco asks. He heads for the bathroom and starts to strip out of his clothes.

He’s washing his face when Toni replies, “Rapping in french. I don’t know.”

“You rooming with Varane?” Isco asks.

“Yeah.”

Isco grins at his mirrored reflection, picturing Toni’s troubled expression as he talks. “Tough luck,” he says. “Those two always end up together.”

“I know.”

Isco hears something fall on the bed. Toni’s body, probably. He leaves the bathroom to find Toni stretched out on his back across the two twin beds. His shirt is riding up, showing his abdomen. Isco doesn’t stare.

“Get off my bed,” Isco tells him, no heat in his words. Toni doesn’t move, not even an inch. Isco throws his clothes in the vague direction of his suitcase. He prefers sleeping in the nude, but since Toni’s there, he’ll wait until they’ve slipped under the covers to take off his boxers.

“I want… to punch someone,” Toni says after a few seconds. Isco freezes.

“Benzema?” he asks, making Toni laugh.

“No,” he says. “I’m used to listening to his poor rapping skills. Just— someone. I don’t know. Tonight was like an exercise in frustration.”

Isco scoffs. “Be grateful that you at least got to play,” he says before he can stop himself, the words nearly tripping over themselves at the speed they come out. Toni rolls onto his stomach and stares at him, surprise evident in his face.

And Isco can almost hear it, the ‘sorry’ that is about to fall from Toni’s lips, but in the end the word never comes. Toni stays silent, appraising Isco with his naked eyes, before he asks, “Have you talked to him?”

“There is no point.” Isco shakes his head. “He won’t play me.”

“Then what will you do?” Toni asks. He knows already. He has to know. They all do. Isco hears him asking _will you keep fighting?_ even though he doesn’t say the words and suddenly he wants to challenge Toni, to say punch me, fight me, tear my hair out and make me bleed. He wants it so bad he shivers and aches in all his joints like an old man.

“I’ve gotten offers. From good clubs. Premier league, mostly. The pay won’t be much better, but I’ll play, which is what I want. I hate being on the bench, Toni. I fucking hate it and after three years.” Isco shakes his head again. “I feel like it’s either him or me.”

“It’s not,” Toni says, ever the pragmatic, “but I understand why you feel that.”

Isco sighs. Toni is still occupying the two beds, so he lays down next to him even though he’s painfully exposed like this. His stomach looks soft and vulnerable underneath the hotel lights, so Isco rolls over until he can hit the switch and turns off all the lights so that the streetlights below are their only source of illumination.

It’s easier to say the next words in the dim light, easier than it’d be if Toni could see his face. 

“I’m leaving.”

Toni moves on the bed until he and Isco are lying side by side, no space between them. Isco feels the soft fabric of Toni’s sweats against his bare skin, the warmth from his chest, like a hot iron against Isco’s ribs.

“Where?” Toni asks

“City. Guardiola is going there too. He called me on the phone,” Isco hadn’t told this bit to anyone yet, not his father, not the rest of his family, not even his agent. “He said he had plans. Ideas. A place for me on the team. A lot more than what benítez has offered.”

Toni was quiet for a couple of seconds and then— “Is it a done deal?”

“I’ve still got to call my agent to confirm it but.” Isco doesn’t finish the sentence.

“But there’s no doubt that you will call,” Toni says. He sighs and then he puts his left hand on the small of Isco’s naked back. Isco has to stop himself from shivering at the touch. He and Toni are physical people, they hug and touch each other often enough, although it’s rare for them to spend time like this. They both have different groups of friends within the team. All that would change soon.

All would change soon.

“I will miss you,” Toni says, small and petulant, his words muffled by the bed sheets.

Isco turns his head so that he’s looking at Toni, who is already looking at him. “I’m sorry,” he says, so quiet even he has trouble hearing himself.

“It’s alright,” Toni says. “I get it.”

And Isco knew that he would because of course solid, pragmatic and still terrible sarcastic Toni would understand. There was no doubt about it. None. 

Isco almost hates him for it.

“You could ask me to stay,” he whispers. He doesn’t mean it, doesn’t want it, is only saying the words because he’s late and he’s tired and Toni’s hand is warm and heavy on his back.

“No,” Toni replies. “I can’t.”

Isco nods. He closes his eyes and imagines himself bursting into flames as his weight pulls him towards an unknown fate. The thought warms him to the core, even if it’s nothing like the feeling of coming home.


	14. Toni/Lucas; pull the sheets right off the corner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "we are both waiting for the same flight that has been delayed overnight. you want to cause some chaos and get drunk?"

as soon as he got to his gate, toni knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

he was already running late after getting caught in traffic on his way to the airport. the ride itself had been hell, with the inside of the cab more humid than a sauna and his taxi driver rambling the entire time about the state of great britain’s economy.

the guy had acted like david cameron was the sole reason for all of the country’s problems and while toni agreed that cameron was to blame for a lot of britain’s problems, he also thought that he’d sooner jump into traffic than spend another minute listening someone over sixty say, “but at least we left the EU.”

there were many things toni could argued in return, but he was pretty sure that as a german business his opinion was as unneeded as it was unwelcome.

it was easier to keep silent and play ‘soda dungeon’ on his phone as he pretended to listen, his thoughts occasionally straining to wishes of death upon the clouds and all the weather deities conspiring against him.

once he was at the airport, he rushed through security, moving towards the fast lane without hesitation. boarding had already started by the time he was done, so he tried to sprint towards his gate, but there were too many people mingling about for him to move at anything but an annoyed power walk.

toni glared at everyone who so much as dared to stand near him, acting like he wanted to freeze time and tell everyone to fuck off. it was only as he reached his gate and didn’t see a queue by the door that he realized just why everyone in london had decided to chill out at heathrow that night: their flights had been cancelled.

“oh fuck me,” toni groans just as someone bumped into him. toni instinctively glared at the stranger before he caught himself and shook his head. just because he was having a shit day it didn’t mean he had to be a dick to everyone around him.

“i’m so sorry,” the other person guy said, speaking in english through a thick spanish accent. toni waved him off with one hand while using the other to fix his hair.

“it’s fine,” toni told him in spanish, making the other guy’s lift in surprise widen in surprise before he glanced at the gate and then glanced back at toni.

“madrid?” he asked

“well, that’s what i was hoping, but it doesn’t look like i’m going anywhere for now.”

“i think they said over the speaker that all flights have been delayed because of the storm.”

“did they say for how long?” toni asked.

the guy shrugged. “i don’t think so, but my english isn’t that good,” he said, so toni decided they might as well go and ask.

“we’re sorry, sir, but at the moment there’s nothing we can tell you other than all flights leaving london have been put on hold.”

“alright. well. thanks,” toni said with the most forced smile that had ever graced his face, which was saying a lot for someone like him.

after they’d walked a few meters away, toni said, “i’m going to check on my phone if the news are saying anything.”

spanish guy nodded and smiled. it was rather awkward hanging out with someone he didn’t know, but, as toni’s brother often told him ‘hanging out with other people won’t kill you’ so. toni tried.

“okay, so, according to the news wind speed and the rain should pick up a lot two hours from now, so either they let us go before then or…”

“we’re fucked,” spanish guy completed for him. toni laughed as the first real smile of the day stretched across his lips.

“pretty much, yeah. did you have anywhere to be?” he asked.

there was a pause before the other man answered in which toni’s words flashed in front of his eyes in neon colors and he realized how flirty he sounded. toni opened his mouth to add something else, but before got the chance the other guy started talking.

“not really. i’ve got an amateur football match tomorrow, but i’ll just tell the team i can’t make it. i’m captain, so there’s not much they can do about it. it’s a shame though because after tomorrow’s match the league is going sort of on vacation so there won’t be another game for two months and i really wanted to be there, but i guess that’s life. you win some, you lose some, you know?”

toni, who had been expecting a three-word reply and whose spanish wasn’t that despite having moved to madrid two years ago, didn’t know.

“i guess,” he replied.

“oh and i’m lucas, by the way,” the other man said, giving toni his hand for him to shake and flashing a billion watts smile.

“toni.”

“it’s nice to meet you, toni. i always hate waiting at airports, especially when i’m alone. kinda makes me wanna tear my hair out.”

now, if there was one subject in life that toni could pick and dissect for as long as needed without letting the conversation go stale, it was airport talk.

“airports in general are the bane of my existence,” he said. lucas looked him straight in the eye while he talked and in a flash of boldness, toni decided to play the smooth business man card and asked, “do you want to get a drink? if we’re stuck at heathrow for at least another two hours i need something to get rid of my headache.”

lucas put a hand on toni’s shoulder. “i think i love you,” he said.

having already used all of his smoothness points, toni’s was an awkward, “thanks?” that made lucas bark out a laugh so loud everyone in a fifty kilometer radius heard.

“come on, you’re paying the first round,” lucas told him.

it took ton a few moments to catch up. his brother was going to have a laugh when he heard _this_ story, but toni would think about that later.

they found a quiet bar shoved into a dark corner after a few minutes of walking and immediately dumped their bags with all the eagerness of two people who were stuck at an airport and would pay good money to be anywhere else.

“and what about you? do you have anywhere to be?” lucas asked as the bartender poured one glass of scotch and one mojito. 

as soon as the glasses were in front of them, toni regretted not getting a mojito too.

“just my bed and my dogs,” toni replied. it was an honest answer, one toni hadn’t thought he’d ever give until the words were pouring out of his mouth like snowflakes. 

“aw, are they alone are right now?”

“no, no. i’ve hired someone to take care of them while i’m away on business trips. if i left them by themselves they’d eat my entire couch and piss on the potted plants. i love them but they’re kind of idiots,” toni shrugged, smiling when lucas laughed at his shitty joke.

the conversation followed freely after that. they got more drinks when they’d finished their glasses, with toni going down the mojito route while lucas decided to innovate and ordered a caipirinha. 

the world around them seemed to disappear as they each talked about their lives and experiences. toni regaled lucas with the story of the Three Hour Plane Trip From Hell when he moved from germany to madrid with his dogs and had to spend the entire time in the bags compartment with them to stop them from getting anxious.

in return, lucas told toni about visiting his extended family in london and having to share a bedroom with his seven year old cousin who’d just discovered youtube.

it was fun and easy and toni didn’t think about their flight at all until the bartender told them they were closing for the night and toni realized just how late it was.

“oh shit, it’s way past one.”

toni paid for the drinks — all of them — telling lucas he could pay next time without even thinking about it. there was a pause before lucas grabbed one of toni’s hands and said, “it’s a date.”

he was drunk, both of them were, but there was enough conviction in the set of his eyes to tell toni that he meant it, all of it.

“okay,” toni replied. simple, as easy as breathing.

when they made it to their gate they saw what, deep down, they’d always expected: their flight had been delayed until the morning.

“fuck,” lucas said, his voice coming out way too loud because of the alcohol.

“we should get a hotel room. i’m too old to sleep at an airport.”

“we’re the same age and if i’m not too old to sleep at an airport than neither are you,” lucas said, throwing toni a distrustful look. “a bed sounds nice though.”

it took them both a while to realize the implication of their words. “i meant— well i didn’t— i wouldn’t—“ toni didn’t have a single clue what he meant or wanted, actually.

“i know, we shouldn’t. we’re drunk,” lucas said. his hand was around toni’s arm, heavy and warm.

“yeah,” toni replied. “we could go to the same hotel though. split a cab ride.”

“sure,” lucas replied. the ride towards the city center was quicker this time, the roads devoid of any all people smart enough to hide inside during the storm.

for simplicity’s sake, toni decided to go back to the hotel he’d been staying in. he wondered if he could get the room he’d had before, with the windows overlooking hyde park. he wasn’t thinking about money until he and lucas sprinted into the hotel and lucas whispered, “holy shit. this place is fancy.”

“huh, i guess?” toni said, half his mind in the conversation and the other half in the ridiculous amount of water that had rained on them in the time it took to get inside the hotel.

his hair was going to look like such crap tomorrow. 

“i can’t—“ lucas looked at his shoes. “i can’t afford this place.”

toni froze and stopped trying to fix his unfixable hair. without even thinking about it, he said, “oh, that’s fine. i’ll pay for both rooms.”

“that is ridiculous,” lucas whispered.

toni shrugged. “it’s pouring like crazy and we’re already here. come on.” toni picked up both their cases. “don’t overthink it.”

he strode into the hotel without looking back. by the time he had reached the reception desk, lucas was back at his side.

toni explained their situation to the clerk, who informed them toni’s previous room wasn’t available, but they had a few others that were. toni was about to ask for two rooms when lucas spoke up and said with a clear, sure voice, “just one room, please.”

both of toni’s eyebrows flew open as he stared at lucas, but he didn’t say anything. he asked if they could get a room with a view and the desk clerk glanced between them before a conspiring grin split across her lips.

“since it’s already so late, why don’t you two gentlemen take the master suite at no extra charge? a gift from the hotel.”

“thank you, huh,” toni glanced at lucas again, wondering if this was okay.

“that’s fine,” lucas said for both of them, smiling at the desk clerk, who instantly smiled back.

they got their key and made their way to the elevator side by side. toni felt a little light headed. he wasn’t sure how he’d gone from being stuck at heathrow after having his flight delayed to sharing a hotel suite in london with a man he’d met four hours ago.

“it wouldn’t make sense for you to pay for two rooms at what is clearly a very, very expensive hotel,” lucas explained, staring straight ahead at the elevator doors.

“i said it was fine,” toni said, frowning.

“i know that and i’m not going with you because i feel like i own you anything, which i don’t. i’m going with you because you’re funny and i like you. plus, capitalism is killing our society and we shouldn’t just spend money recklessly. not to mention we’re both sober now anyway, so.”

“well,” toni said, but didn’t continue the thought. there wasn’t much he could argue. it wasn’t as if he was desperate to spend the night by himself. regardless of what his family believed, he wasn’t _that_ anti-social. “fine.”

“come on,” lucas said as the elevator doors opened, “let’s watch shitty late night tv and order room service. that will compensate for the room we didn’t get.” as he walked out, lucas turned around and looked at toni, flashing him the biggest shit-eating smile toni had ever seen. “also, you’re paying.”

“yeah, yeah,” toni laughed. “i know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is kinda ehhh but i really REALLY wanted to write some lucas/toni because [their bond is too real](http://whiteboykroos.tumblr.com/tagged/lucatoni) so yeah! this is it!
> 
> i might write something more soon because they're so cute together and i'm weak as fuck.


End file.
